


Of Celebration and Lack of Privacy

by HyenaKonrad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Celebrations, Desperation, Gen, New Year's Eve, References to Sexual Situations, Socially Awkward Situation, bladder desperation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:45:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyenaKonrad/pseuds/HyenaKonrad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John insisted upon a gathering of friends to celebrate the bringing in of the New Year. But Sherlock hadn't expected the large number in attendance and how out of hand drunken revelers could be. What is he to do when he finds himself faced once more with desperate need and with nowhere in a flat full to the brim with people to go in privacy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Celebration and Lack of Privacy

His body had adjusted well and quickly to the new intake of fluids. John had told Sherlock time and again that once his body adjusted, the urgent situations he found himself getting into day to day would start to fade in memory as a long forgotten problem, and Sherlock was happy when that day came. Despite drinking water before long cases or drinking tea in the mornings as a pick me up, Sherlock was able to hold his bladder in control until they returned to Baker Street after a day of legwork and chases. In fact (and he wouldn’t admit it) Sherlock was feeling a bit better at the end of his days now that he was taking better care of his transport. The headaches which had been a result of dehydration weren’t as bad or weren’t there at all at the end of his days, which was a welcome relief.

The bladder shyness was something they weren’t succeeding well in conquering unfortunately. When Sherlock was in a fair amount of need and they were about to head back to Baker Street, John would try to get him to use the loo in whatever public building was closest to their current position; a restaurant, office building, whatever allowed public access. Sherlock would walk in to more or less entertain him, stand in front of the urinal with his penis pulled out, and try to bear down and release his bladder. He pushed himself as close to the toilet as he could so that no one could see him (he wasn’t fond of the thought of strangers eyeing his private parts. They were hidden in clothing for a reason). But the whole experience was nothing but uncomfortable. After five minutes he would always leave the washroom still with a full bladder, irritation in his eyes as he shot a glare at John, shoving passed him. It was a frustrating situation for the both of them; John at not seeing any progress with this problem, and Sherlock with John’s lack of understanding. John apparently had it in his head that with enough rough handling and pressuring of Sherlock, he could remedy this problem the man has had since childhood.

“Sherlock, this is a juvenile problem.”

“We’re not talking about this John. I thought I’ve made myself clear.”

Sherlock sighed out tensely with frustration, fingering through the pages of a rather old book on the psychology of killers. Intriguing, but old and flawed in its thoughts and thesis. 

“This isn’t something I’ve ever planned on talking with my flat mate about. This is a personal problem and not something I’m looking for help with. I have it under control.”

“Oh, by damn near pissing yourself because you can’t use a public toilet? Oh, yeah, that’s dealing with the problem properly Sherlock. Look, I understand that you have a problem, but you’re doing nothing but not at least trying to take the steps to—“

Sherlock launched himself to his feet, book in hand as he stalked off to his room.

“Sherl—SHERLOCK!”

Ignore. He was not going to talk to him about this. He was going to talk to no one about this. Sherlock’s face burned with embarrassment, feeling heated about the collar. He slammed his door shut behind him, gritting his teeth, running a shaking hand through his hair. No, he didn’t have a problem. Not one he couldn’t handle. He had this under control. Under control. Mycroft had taught him well. He was fine.

~~

But it was not fine. It was fine until months later Sherlock was confronted with a new and unforeseen problem. A problem he hadn’t quite considered when he’d taken in a flat mate; he hadn’t considered social gatherings.

It was New Year’s Eve, and John had insisted upon a gathering of ‘friends’ (Sherlock didn’t have friends, so failed to see the point of all this). But John was a social person, and so was firm on his request, and Sherlock relented. It would just be a few people. It would be a quiet gathering. It would be fine. Sherlock could shut himself away when it became too much for him to deal with. John could have his little fun and Sherlock could be oblivious to it all. The man who risked his life to aid Sherlock on his cases deserved his cooperation for just this one day out of the year for all the days John has given up to him. He, however, hadn’t expected this.

John had invited far too many people. Much of Scotland Yard was there, a few of John’s friends from the war (having finally returned from their tour of duty in Afghanistan), Mrs. Hudson had invited a few people upon some convincing from John, and of course their guests had invited some friends of their own. The flat was crawling with people, and Sherlock didn’t like it. Too many people, and far too much alcohol flowing through their systems. It made for way too much stupid, and too much stupid created too many problems.

“Unhand that!”

For about the third time that evening Sherlock had to snatch his skull from the grimy hands of some drunken buffoon intent on using it as a ball to be tossed. Such blatant disrespect of his personal things was exactly why he had hoped John wouldn’t invite so many people in the first place. Sherlock held the skull protectively against his chest and snarled, closing his eyes as he tried to find a peaceful place in his mind away from all of the cacophony. 

“Oh come on Sherlock, it’s all in good fun! They mean nothing by it!”

John was equally as drunk, laughing with a glass of wine in hand. He and his friend clapped each other on the back and walked off to go reminisce about some of the better times they had with fallen comrades back at the war. Oh the atmosphere was bleeding with sentiment and jolly good fun and Sherlock hated it. With skull in hand, he stalked off for his room to put it somewhere safe, where it couldn’t be manhandled. It was then that he noticed a throbbing in his lower belly. It had been many long hours since he’s voided his bladder, due to the fact he had been in the flat experimenting all day and so felt no hurry to get up when his bladder asserted itself earlier in the day. He had a toilet he could get to when he needed it. So he pushed the need out of his mind. Now he regretted doing so. He’d forgotten about this little arrangement and so by the time he had finally decided to make a trip to the loo, the guests started arriving, and he soon became distracted by putting away things he didn’t want rifled with and playing keep away with the more fragile and potentially dangerous things lying about.

Upon reaching his bedroom, Sherlock was aware that the door was ajar, and that was certainly not how he left it. He never left his door open (it was a rule that any closed doors in the flat meant the room was not to be entered). And upon further inspection, he was appalled to find that two people had roosted upon his bed, engaging in shameful sexual acts, stripping clothing, faces pressed together, hands fondling over intimate parts.

“Excuse me!”

Sherlock’s voice cut through the moans and gasps, but neither person looked up. Sherlock placed his skull on the wardrobe before watching for a horrifying moment as these primal animals continued exploring every orifice of each other’s bodies. On his bed. In his room. His sanctuary. He would have to completely disinfect the place now. He couldn’t continue to watch this, and the thought of inching any closer to this filthy intertwine of bodies of enough to make him gag. He rushed out of the room, blazing with fury that matched the throbbing in his bladder. Two cups of tea. Two glasses of water. A glass of wine (because Lestrade simply insisted that that he loosen up). So much filling him up. And nowhere to go. His one private place was now occupied and the entire flat was crawling with strangers and people he’d rather not associate with. And he was growing very needy for a toilet. He had no option but to wait.

Sherlock walked back out to the sitting room and slumped into his armchair, propping his chin up on his hand, which leaned against the arm of the chair. He hadn’t realized how full he was until now, now that he had made a conscious decision to empty his bladder and was no longer able to do so. It ached with how full it was. He crossed his legs tightly, and tried once more to put himself into a place in his mind where he could be away from these simple fools, where his body wasn’t tangible, and where his bladder wasn’t throbbing in desperate pulses to push out all the urine he was forcing it to hold. And for a few moments it worked. Facts. Knowledge. He sifted through everything in his head and let the world around him filter into the background of his mind. Just let it fall away. Let it all fall away.

“H-Hello Sherlock…”

Oh not now. Any time but now. He was startled out of his thoughts, eyes coming to focus on one Molly Hooper, face flushed from the liquor, an awkward smile twitched on her lips, painted red with the lipstick she wore as a desperate attempt to impress. Oh she was always trying to impress, but now wasn’t the time. It never really was the time, but he had just enough presence of mind to not be so cruel (John was teaching him slowly to keep from saying things that were a bit not good). Sherlock just didn’t have the heart to tell this desperate woman that he had no romantic interest in her. He was married to his work, and that was that.

“Hello Molly. Enjoying the festivities I take it?”

“Hm? Oh! Yes. It was very nice of John to invite me. Are you…enjoying yourself?”

Hardly. Sherlock was in immense discomfort. So much discomfort. So much urine. Oh he needed to relieve himself. He crossed his legs in the other direction, body tense, hand balled into a tight fist. He clenched and unclenched his thighs in a repetitive manner, trying to keep his hips firmly in place despite the urges he got to move about. He was practically crawling out of his own skin with the need to move around, but he was forcing himself into a false sense of ease, to keep his desperate state from becoming apparent. It was maybe a bit good everyone else was drunk, because though his irrationally frantic mind told him all eyes were on his predicament, no one was really paying him much mind.

“If you can call drunken idiots roving around my flat getting into my things enjoying myself then yes, I suppose I am.”

Molly pressed her lips into a thin line, looking around at the other guests. They were rather loud, dancing about, laughing, yelling, and…

“OOOOH!”

A group of men had gotten into Sherlock’s lab equipment, pouring chemicals into beakers, watching as the solutions fizzed until finally it spilled over, bursting all over the table in a mess of foam, gas, and liquid.

“HOLY SHIT YOU GOT IT ALL OVER THE BLOODY PLACE!”

Sherlock lurched to his feet and nearly toppled back over at the sudden tilt in pressure. He pressed his thighs tightly together, sweat forming high on his brow as he struggled for control. No, he would not piss himself like a child. He would hold control until he could finally get his privacy. Oh but he’s held it for so long already. His body was shaking with how tired it was from being so tense, and his muscles ached so terribly. But the ache in his muscles compared nothing to the immense aching pain emitting from his full bladder. Once he was able to ensure he had control over himself, he stalked over to his lab table and shooed away the men to the best of his ability (it was hard to hold any sort of command when his voice shook with unease and nervousness). They didn’t much want to comply, but their short attention span worked in his favor and they were soon drawn to another group of guests and their silly antics. 

“Yikes, what a mess.”

Lestrade made a low whistle, getting a dangerous glare from the detective as he set to work cleaning up this terrible mess. God knows what sort of chemicals were mixed together. They could end up having a bad reaction with the table, the floor, the bacteria on said surfaces, or the very air itself. He needed to make quick work of the cleanup. He was having a hard time not fidgeting however, wriggling his hips about as he shuffled from foot to foot. He could feel himself just on the edge, urine filling up his cock, barely held back, barely contained. 

“Want some—“

“I don’t need help Lestrade.”

“Whatever you say…”

He wasn’t going to let Sherlock’s foul mood ruin his evening, so he went off to find someone else to talk to. Good. Leave me alone. With the table cleaned, Sherlock now stooped over to get the floor cleaned up. Leaning over to clean the floor , however, proved to be very painful. Sherlock let out a discreet gasp, rubbing a hand over his abdomen. It fluttered with urgency under the touch, muscles bearing down to let out all of his pent up urine, while at the same time holding tight in the presence of so many others around him, anxiety besting him yet again as it has for years. As an act of desperate measure he pressed the heel of his palm into his crotch, rubbing vigorously for a few moments, hips bucking into his palm. He felt damp. Let that be sweat. Please let it just be sweat. He rubbed his palm up and down against himself, undulating his hips, growing heated at the intense sensations now warring within him. Oh god not here. He was not doing this in front of all of these people. He had to get a grip of himself! Sherlock pressed down hard with the heel of his hand into the base of his cock, bringing himself back from the endge, trying to find some composure in the space of intense need. Once he thought he had enough sense to carry on, Sherlock finished cleaning up the mess and disposed of the paper towels in his hazmat bin (John had insisted on it after a few unwanted reactions of waste with their trash).

Sherlock now glanced at the clock, reading it to be 10 PM. It was another two hours until midnight, and it was likely John’s guests wouldn’t leave until a few hours after midnight rolled around. Could Sherlock wait until then? His bladder cried out an urgent no. It was beyond an ache by this point, leaving the detective shifting back and forth uneasily on his feet with his hand shoved in the waist of his trousers to pull them away from his angrily swollen abdomen. Christ there must be something he could do. Somewhere he could go. Maybe those…filthy mongrels were out of his room. It would be some miracle, but he had to give it a try.

He made for his room, walking stiff legged. Oh his bladder was so heavy, pulling him down and jolting with each step he took. He just wanted to relieve himself. Was that really so much to ask of a man who asked for nothing and gave so much to a world that didn’t deserve it? The fresh stink of sex hit his nostrils the moment he was in the doorway, and to his dismay and disgust he found that they were lying in his bed, resting after their folly. He could hear sounds coming from his private loo. Not available. The toilet upstairs. He moved quickly up the stairs, mind frantic with his need for relief. Please let no one be up here, oh please. But of course there would be. Looking for privacy to let out their sexual frustrations as it seemed just about everyone was doing this evening. This whole flat would have to be disinfected!

A sudden intense urge pressed against him, and Sherlock thrust his hand between his legs, bouncing on the balls of his heels as he grabbed tightly at his cock through the fabric of his trousers. Oh Christ he had to go. He needed a toilet, and he needed one now! But they were both unavailable, and every room in the flat was occupied by someone (so there was no choice of emptying his bladder into some other acceptable receptacle). There was no privacy. Nowhere to hide.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned to come face to face with John again, who was swaying heavily on his feet, catching himself on a nearby wall to keep from falling over. It was rare that John allowed himself to come to such an inebriated condition, but when he wanted to let loose all of the tension in his life, John really let himself go. How dull. He thought John would have more control of himself. Oh what did that matter right now?!

“John, I need…”

“You need to calm down mate…”

He let out a short laugh, walking towards Sherlock, half noting the intense distress he was under and feeling concern, and half feeling nothing but a relaxed warmth permeating through him making him incapable of giving a rat’s ass about anything but the feeling of lust blossoming in his bosom. Sherlock backed off, removing his hand from his crotch to shove it in his pocket, thumb and finger squeezed tightly around the head. He hoped that would be more discreet, but holding himself was the only way he could hold control of himself. He was on the edge of something very disastrous, and he couldn’t back away from it no matter the immense effort he mustered to soldier on.

“John, I would ask you to back off.”

“Why? You uh, afraid of what I might…”

John stumbled forward and pressed himself against Sherlock, laughing before sobering up a bit, feeling the tension in Sherlock’s body, the way he tried desperately to get away from the smaller man by pressing himself against the wall behind him.

“What’s your bloody problem?” John gave Sherlock a scrutinizing swipe of his eyes. Couldn’t he just relax, just for once?

“John, I…”

What was he going to tell him? He was desperate for a wee and he couldn’t, simply couldn’t go? There was nowhere to go and he wanted these people out now? Sherlock was fighting the intense desire to roar out in anger against all the guests until they left the flat and left Sherlock to his privacy. He’d promised John his day, and he would let him have it. John has done so much for him. He wanted to give him this one day. Oh but why did he have to have it in their flat, where Sherlock’s private sanctuary could be invaded?

His bladder cramped once more, a spurt of urine leaking out despite his hold, and Sherlock made quick work to undo his belt, rip open his trousers, and shove his hand down the front of them to pump at his cock through his pants, face flushed with a mix of need and desire. Oh he needed to go. He would give anything to be able to go. Oh please he didn’t want to piss himself like a child. Anything but that. 

“Sher—“

Sherlock rushed passed John, losing him in a sea of people. He made for the corner of the sitting room, pacing the small space of floor, trying to come up with a plan. He was too far gone to make it out of the house to find somewhere away from the flat to find relief (not that he could find anywhere open this late on New Year’s Eve), and there was nowhere within the flat he could go. So what were his options? He simply couldn’t go. But his body was telling him he couldn’t wait another moment longer. Oh please no. He turned into the corner, legs crossed tightly as he rubbed at himself vigorously. Oh god no he couldn’t do that. He was practically wanking in the corner of the room to keep from soiling himself (that and the intense desperation was leaving a hot feeling of pleasure inside his belly he would never admit to). It was unbecoming of a Holmes. He was Sherlock Holmes! He was not going to wet himself in his sitting room, in front of all of these people, where he could be mocked and humiliated. He was not.

Another spurt. No, a gush, soaking through his pants to wet his trousers, passing through his fingers. Oh no, no, no! He hunched over, both hands pressing desperately into himself, mustering the last of his resolve. Just one more minute of control. Oh just one more moment. Please just let him hold it.

“Oh chriiiist…”

He gnawed at his lip, eyes shut tightly, body tensed tightly to keep himself from inevitable disaster. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t hold it. Oh god he couldn’t hold it. He was done in.

There was a hand on his back, a soothing, hushing voice at his ear, urging him to follow. Sherlock shook his head. He couldn’t move. He simply couldn’t move. Oh god he was going to wet himself. He could feel his urine leaking out of his body, dribbling down his legs, soaking into his shoes. He remembered his first day home from school, burning to the forefront of his mind. It was happening all over again. More soothing whispers from the voice, telling him it was alright, telling him he could let go.

“Oh pleeeease…”

The voice told him it was alright. The voice gave him permission. Sherlock simply couldn’t hold it a moment longer. He pressed his forehead against one of the walls forming the corner he had huddled himself into, and finally his tight muscles simply couldn’t hold back the flood anymore. His bladder’s full capacity outweighed the anxiety and pulsed the urine forth in unsteady spurts, the flow choppy as his muscles tried to tighten against the flood when his mind would acknowledge the sounds of people all around him. But slowly Sherlock was finally relieved of his burden, body relaxing shamefully. The relief was too much, and he just about fell forward if it weren’t for tight arms pulling him back and close to a warm body. The body of the soothing voice. 

The voice now guided him through throngs of revelers against Sherlock’s wishes. They’ll see. They’ll see what he’s done. He couldn’t. But he was hushed, hurried along before anyone could take notice and before Sherlock could protest and stay glued into the corner he had taken hold up in. They were much too busy to care or notice the two of them. The voice assured Sherlock he would be well taken care of. It was ok now. There was no need to be ashamed. There was no need.

And now they were in Sherlock’s room, his defiled sanctuary, and the voice grew authoritative and angry, rousing the sleeping mongrels and ushering them hurriedly out of the room. Once both room and washroom were properly vacated, the door was shut and locked, and only Sherlock and the voice remained behind. He sat on his bed despite how randy it smelled, deflated, tired, and defeated. He’d wet himself utterly and completely for the first time in so many years, and how could that be reconciled? How could he not look down on himself with loathing and disgust. He was beyond such juvenile nonsense. He shouldn’t be weeing on the floor like a child.

“Don’t look so downtrodden ‘Lock…”

Sherlock lurched his gaze up to the face of the soothing voice, and sure enough there was the endearing face of his brother. His Mycroft. Not the face of the British Government everyone knew, but the brother who has supported and helped him all the years of his life with wise guidance.

“Seems John doesn’t know how to control his little friends. My there’s going to be quite the mess to clean up in the morning…”

“Not my mess to deal with…well…”

Sherlock sighed out softly, pressing thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. But Mycroft wouldn’t allow his brother to become so upset as to start crying out of his frustration and anger (Sherlock hadn’t ever really grown out of his terrible childhood tantrums, though they did evolve into something a bit more explosive and dangerous). The older brother sat beside the younger and smoothed his hand over Sherlock’s back, feeling the trembling of an impending explosion starting to ebb away, his body stilling.

“What would you do without me?”

Sherlock gave Mycroft a subtle glare, but then it softened into a bit of a playful smirk that pushed through the exhaustion that was starting to take hold of him. It was apparent in his eyes, a subtlety Mycroft had learned to read over the years.

“London would burn if I didn’t have you to keep the beast in me calmed.”

Mycroft scoffed, then shook his head as he brought his brother into his arms, something they seldom shared together now that they’ve grown. But Mycroft knew his brother just needed that emotional connection sometimes, that human contact Sherlock was denied by cruel and unforgiving people. No one understood Sherlock like Mycroft did, and no one ever would. Sometimes Sherlock wasn’t ok with that. Sometimes Sherlock just wanted to scream at the fools around him and ask them was he really so difficult? Was he really such a complex anomaly that they had to look at him like a freak? But sometimes, Mycroft was just enough and he needed nothing else to tie him down to the cold, unforgiving Earth and hold him there. Sometimes Mycroft was just what he needed.

So the two brothers spent the rest of their evening locked away in the solitude of Sherlock’s bedroom, bringing in the new year together as they had many years before, and hoped for something better for themselves this turn of the calendar. Sherlock hoped for more crafty criminals to stave off his bordem. And Mycroft hoped that this year, maybe John would finally start to understand the man he’s been living with, and unlock the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes, so that his brother maybe would feel just a little less alone in this world.

Because though he wished he could be there for his dearest brother through every trouble that may come his way, one day Mycroft couldn’t and wouldn’t be there, and there needed to be someone else that Sherlock could rely on to help pick up the pieces when he simply couldn’t do it himself. And Mycroft had the utmost confidence that John could be that person to do it.

**Author's Note:**

> A wetting fic with Sherlock as an adult was requested, and so here it is.  
> I'm sorry that the ending didn't flow quite so well as I had hoped, but I was having a lot of difficulty with the wrap up this time around, more so than I usually do.  
> So...yeah!  
> If anyone has another request (or if the same person would like to make another request), go right on ahead!  
> I have a lot of fun writing these fics because damn i can't get enough of this kink, so I'm more than willing to write up requests  
> For the enjoyment of myself, and you guys ;D  
> Enjoy!
> 
> (As a quick note, my desperation fics will more than likely reference each other, so if you're confused, I advise that you read my other fics. If you really don't care and are just reading for the desperation, then by all means enjoy!)


End file.
